


Sharing

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Dream Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Self-Indulgent, Shameless Smut, Shared Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 02:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: "It’s a m – moot point, isn’t it? We share the dreams."





	Sharing

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: i didn't mark this underage because in my head both of them are always 18 but with the timeline in the show/book it's a bit murky where this would land? also, use of a razor to cut skin for blood drinking/blood play
> 
> jesus christ this is awful, uninspired title is uninspired
> 
> this is literally just awful, self-indulgent porn for the sake of itself. it is not edited. it is almost definitely out of character. i'm not even sure if its finished. i'm a little bit ashamed.
> 
> have it anyway.

_Heat._

_Roman’s drowning in it. Everything is too hot, nearly feverish, like he’s too close to a fire, but he’s not – there’s no flames, just Peter. Peter’s ice-blue eyes and bruising grip and naked skin, pressed tightly and sweat-tacky against Roman’s own, his cock an even hotter brand against Roman’s thigh  –_

Roman gasps awake, limbs flailing, and falls out of bed.

He hits his head on the way down, not hard enough to knock him out, just barely enough to bruise, but just enough to make his vision go a little out of focus. He’s disoriented when he starts hearing the buzzing and can’t quite place it, until the phone vibrates straight off of his nightstand and onto his chest.

He grunts and fumbles up, letting the phone drop to his lap while he works on untangling himself from his sheets. They’re damp, soaked through with sweat, and Roman’s breathing seizes as more of the dream comes back to him in vivid flashes –

_Peter’s arm against his throat, teeth bared –_

_The sound of fabric tearing, someone’s shirt but Roman can’t care, not when Peter has his teeth set against Roman’s throat like that, just enough threat to make his knees weak –_

_“Slut,” hissed through Peter’s teeth, more an endearment than an insult as he goes to his knees –_

Roman shakes his head, hard, enough to hurt his ears, and picks up his phone.

He finds seven texts, and each one makes his stomach fall further and further.

_gypsy: what the fuck was that_

_gypsy: was that dream yours or mine?_

_gypsy: answer me, godfrey. whose dream was that?_

_gypsy: goddamnit, roman._

_gypsy: if you don’t answer me i’m coming over._

_gypsy: i’m serious._

_gypsy: i’m at your fucking door. let me in._

Roman swallows hard against the lump of panic suddenly taking up all of the extra space in his throat and chest. _Goddamnit._

He can hear Peter pounding at the door. If he gets any louder, he’s going to wake one of the staff, and then Olivia, and Roman can’t fucking _breathe_ past the panic that shoots down his spine.

He’s up and halfway down the stairs before he’s realized he’s moving.

“Quiet!” he hisses when he yanks the door open. He damn near gets a knock on the face for it.

Peter glowers. “Let me in.”

“What if I said no?”

Peter rolls his shoulders and then his neck, a movement that reminds Roman viscerally of watching his friend change into a wolf. Roman shudders.

“Then you can answer my question out here in your underwear,” Peter says.

Roman doesn’t realize until Peter says it that he’s in nothing but worn, sagging boxers. He realizes immediately afterwards that he’s cold – it’s got to be below freezing outside.

Which is a terrible thought, because his brain immediately supplies him with _Peter is always warm._

He shakes his head hard enough to hurt again and steps back. He doesn’t even get a chance to invite Peter in before the other boy is shoving past him and up the stairs. Roman swallows his heartbeat and follows him up.

 

* * *

 

Roman’s bedroom door slams shut as he’s pushed roughly against it, Peter’s arm against his throat in an exact echo of the dream.

“Whose dream was that?”

Roman’s stomach twists. “Does – fuck,” he swears when Peter presses harder, cutting off his air a little bit, “does it matter? It’s a m – moot point, isn’t it? We share the dreams.”

Peter _snarls,_ actually snarls, inhuman and low and it sets fire to Roman’s skin. He feels about three sizes too big for his own body.

“It fucking matters,” Peter says, low and rough. “Whose dream was it?”

“I don’t – what difference does it make?” Roman’s gasping now, the little amount of air he’s able to take in past Peter’s arm not enough for his body. His cock twitches traitorously and starts to fill.

Peter snarls again. “Whose dream it was is the difference between this,” he reaches down with his free hand to cup Roman’s half-erection, squeezing almost too hard. Roman _squeaks,_ “and me walking out of this house and never bothering you again.”

“Fuck,” Roman whines it, hips bucking toward Peter’s hand in counterpoint to the way he’s pushing at Peter’s arm.

Peter shoves away from him, puts a good three feet of space between their bodies. His teeth are still bared in a grimace, his face twisted up ugly. “Whose dream was it?” He’s panting, and when the moonlight catches his eyes they’re more sickly yellow than blue.

Roman’s stomach swoops in fear-tinged arousal, but he’s too busy gasping in air to answer right away. He brings a hand to his throat, feels the friction burn and the tender skin that he knows will bruise, and coughs his way through a groan.

“Don’t leave,” he finally pants. His voice is shredded. “Don’t – god, don’t you dare fucking leave.”

Peter’s face morphs through several emotions in quick succession – Roman can’t parse any of them, still reeling from too little air and then too much and the fact that most of his blood is too far south to give his brain enough oxygen anyway.

“Yours,” Peter finally says. “Your dream.”

Roman shakes his head, closing his eyes because the sight of Peter like this – angry, half-feral, too close to the wolf for the half-moon outside – is entirely too much to handle right now. “Ours. We share the dreams.”

Peter’s suddenly right up against him again, the heat a shock to Roman’s oversensitive system. God, he’s going to come in his underwear from arousal whiplash.

“I hate you sometimes, you know that?” Peter says it while he’s busy shoving his thigh between Roman’s, bringing them even closer together. Roman only has the brain power to whimper and spread his legs in response. That gets a chuckle, dark and rough, and Roman forces his eyes open.

Peter’s eyes are back to cold blue now but they’re no less feral or calculating, the smirk on his lips only making it worse. Roman couldn’t have stopped the buck of his hips if he’d wanted to.

“You like biting,” Peter says. Roman thinks it should be a question, but it’s not and he knows why.

“So do you,” he breathes, tilting his head back just a little, baring his throat but still looking right at Peter.

He thinks the sound Peter makes was supposed to be a derisive laugh, but it comes out strangled and sounding much more like a groan. Roman gets about three seconds to revel in having some amount of upper hand before Peter’s teeth are digging in against his jugular.

His knees actually go out from under him.

Peter does laugh this time, still a bit choked, and the vibration of it against Roman’s throat does exactly nothing to help his ability to stand. Peter’s got him, though, so much stronger than his small frame implies; the leg shoved between Roman’s, a hand on his shoulder, and the sheer force of Peter pressing him against the door keep him upright.

“Could hurt you, you know,” Peter mutters, licking across the indents of his teeth. Roman knows they’ll bruise and it sends a dark thrill through him. He’s going to look like hell by the time this is over, and he can’t fucking wait.

“I’m not stopping you,” he forces out, head rolling against the door.

“Yeah?”

Roman shakes his head. “God, just – anything, man. Anything.”

Peter seems to think on it for a minute, still licking and nipping across what is definitely going to be one hell of a hickey in the morning. Roman can feel when he makes a decision; Peter pulls his body back but keeps his hands on Roman’s shoulder and hip, steadying him so he doesn’t drop.

“On the bed,” Peter says, head jerking toward it. “And lose the boxers.”

It takes Roman a solid thirty seconds to make his limbs obey him, but Peter seems perfectly content to stand back and just look at him. It makes something like embarrassment shudder down Roman’s spine, but he ignores it.

He’s seen Peter turn into a wolf. He figures it’s probably just fair trade that Peter can see him naked.

The implications of that idea send an entirely different kind of shiver through him. He can hear Peter’s little laugh, short and sharp and _pleased,_ and Roman barely resists a whine.

Once he’s situated on the bed, entirely too exposed and doing his damndest to pretend he’s not, Peter moves.

“Lube?” he asks it casually, like it’s easy, while he starts pulling off his own ratty clothes.

Roman swallows and bites his lip but nods, jerks his head toward the nightstand. Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

Roman looks away from the nearly predatory look Peter’s giving him. Apparently, that’s answer enough. He hears the nightstand drawer pull open and the sound of Peter fishing through the pile of miscellany that lives there.

He’s not really expecting the little metallic sound, but he recognizes it immediately. His blood runs cold and then too-hot, heart pounding as he looks back over to where Peter is standing against the open nightstand, holding a little razor.

Peter’s looking at it, expression blank, just flipping it around in his fingers. Roman swallows, and he knows he must make a noise because Peter looks at him, but he can’t hear himself over the rushing in his ears.

“Hmm?”

Roman swallows again and shakes his head. Peter’s brows raise a little and he glances between Roman and the razor again.

When his eyes come back to Roman, they’re back to predatory, all curiosity or confusion gone. He doesn’t say anything, just knees up onto the bed and straddles Roman’s lap. The breath punches out of Roman’s chest at the sudden skin-on-skin contact, and Peter laughs again, that same tiny, pleased one from earlier.

It makes Roman’s skin crawl in the best way.

“Me or you?” Peter asks.

Roman blinks up at him, eyes flicking between Peter’s and the razor still held in the other boy’s fingers. “What?”

Peter chews his lip. “I asked, me, or you?”

Roman doesn’t know what’s going to happen. He knows Peter has to know what the razor is – Peter’s not stupid, not by a long shot, and he knows Roman a little too well – but he can’t figure out what Peter is asking him.

“I don’t – what are you – ”

Peter flips the razor around again, the glint drawing Roman’s eyes like they’re magnetized.

“Pick one,” Peter says it so easy, shrugging like nothing is a big deal at all, despite the fact that he’s naked and straddling Roman’s lap. “Me or you?”

Roman swallows the lump in his throat, still glancing fitfully between Peter and the razor. “Uh – I – okay. Uh. Y – you?”

Peter grins, teeth glinting in the dim light. “Okay.”

Roman still doesn’t have any idea what’s going to happen until it does.

Peter flips the razor again, so he’s holding the dull end between his fingertips, and brings it up. So quickly Roman nearly doesn’t catch it, he digs the sharp tip into the hollow of his collarbone and jerks to the side, creating a neat little cut that’s parallel to the bone underneath it.

Roman’s mouth goes dry and the rushing in his ears gets even louder.

Peter looks back up at him, seeming unbothered by the little trickle of blood slowly making its way down his chest.

“Well?” Peter’s still grinning. “C’mon.”

Roman’s mouth is hanging open, he knows it is, but he can’t do anything to close it. He can’t even move, because this is – this is just – too much, so much, and Peter –

Peter is pulling his head forward, toward that little drip, stark red even in the dimness. “C’mon, Roman. Know you want it.”

Roman has the wild thought, _this wasn’t in that dream, how could you know_ , before his tongue finds the blood and he’s lost.

He thinks he hears Peter rumble some sort of praise, but even that is gone on him. He traces the line of blood back up, from Peter’s ribs where he caught it and on to the cut itself. It’s not deep, hardly even a scratch compared to the scars that Roman knows Peter has, but its all Roman can think about. _C’mon, Roman. Know you want it._

He’s not thinking when he latches onto the cut and sucks. It’s instinct, instinct he shouldn’t have and he doesn’t know where it comes from, but he doesn’t regret the outcome; Peter arches into him and moans and grips his hair so tight some of it pulls out.

Roman knows he moans back, can feel it pull all the way from his stomach and spill out from between his teeth, but he’s not paying much attention to anything but the blood in his mouth.

He knows it shouldn’t taste this good. It should taste like iron and copper, should make his stomach turn – his own blood does, sometimes - but it doesn’t, god, it does the opposite. He wants more, and specifically more of _Peter’s_ blood. It’s so good he’s going dizzy, and he can hear Peter laughing at him when he loses his battle against gravity and falls back.

“Like that?” Peter asks.

Roman slurs some sort of response, arching his hips up into the pressure of Peter sitting on him. Peter growls a little, more of a rumbling than an actual noise, and follows the motion. Roman’s sure he cries out at the friction, but he doesn’t have any control of it and he doesn’t care either way. Peter laughs again.

“Good boy,” he says, leaning down to nip at Roman’s bottom lip. He chuckles as Roman chases his mouth, gives in and kisses him, deep and filthy. Roman manages to get a hand in Peter’s messy hair and hold on, groaning right into the kiss when Peter’s hips thrust sharply.

It takes a moment before Roman realizes that he’s rambling between kisses. Begging, actually. “Please, please, fuck, Peter, can’t – fuck – please – ”

Peter is hushing him, soft and quiet, soothing sounds mixed in with words Roman doesn’t know – Romani, he thinks. Roman lets them relax him, tries to let the nervous energy in his body go.

“Good boy,” Peter repeats, and Roman can’t help the whimper it pulls out of him. Peter just chuckles, low and dark, nipping at Roman’s earlobe.

“Please,” Roman finally breathes, much less frantic but no less turned on or desperate. Peter hums, some sort of affirmative, and leans back over to the nightstand to grab the lube. Roman passes the moment by tracing fingers over the tattoo on Peter’s ribs. He remembers Peter explaining; _gadjo._ Outsider.

There’s an odd look on Peter’s face when he leans back. He grabs Roman’s hand and presses it into his ribs, over the tattoo, holds it there the same way he has Roman pinned with his eyes.

Roman doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks Peter is trying to make a point. _Outsider. Same as you._

The moment passes, though. Peter’s smirk comes back, making Roman squirm, and he laughs.

“Turn over,” Peter murmurs, shifting up on his knees so Roman has room.

Roman swallows, leaning up on his elbows and shaking his head. Peter rolls his eyes and bends to kiss him. It’s almost sweet, slow and soft, and Roman refuses to acknowledge the mewl it pulls from him.

Peter just smiles, lips pressed to the corner of Roman’s mouth. “Turn over, Roman. Easier that way.”

Roman shudders from his head to his toes and does as he’s told.

Peter’s hands are hot, hotter than Roman remembers from the dream, and it makes him whine. Peter just laughs, scratching lightly down each side of Roman’s spine, humming when Roman arches into the touch.

“You done this before? With someone else?” Peter asks the question when his hands come to rest on Roman’s ass, kneading the muscle there and making Roman shudder.

He can feel himself blushing. “Uh. Yeah.”

Peter hums again, squeezing each of Roman’s ass cheeks hard enough to spread them. Roman yelps, and Peter chuckles. “With who?”

“No – no one o-of any importance,” Roman stammers when he feels Peter’s breath ghost along his lower back.

“Yeah?” Peter drops a kiss to the small of Roman’s back, making him jolt. “Which way?”

“Huh?”

Peter chuckles again. “Top or bottom?”

Roman shivers when he hears the lube click open. “B-both.”

“Which do you like more?”

“Wha – which do you _think?”_ Roman’s getting jittery again. Apparently, Peter notices, because suddenly there’s a slick thumb pressing against Roman’s hole.

He jolts up, whimpering, then relaxes back down so he can hide his face. His thighs are trembling, and he’s sure Peter has noticed it.

“Relax,” Peter murmurs, breath hot and damp against Roman’s ass cheek. He says something else, muffled into Roman’s skin, but it’s in a different language, and Roman’s too distracted to parse it anyway.

“Please,” he mumbles, feeling his face burn.

Peter hums and presses his thumb a little harder, the very tip slipping in and then out again. Roman groans and presses back, wanting more, even if it hurts.

“Peter,” Roman gasps out, “ _please._ ”

“Okay,” Peter shifts a little, and then a different finger is being pushed against Roman’s hole, still just as slick but more insistent this time. Roman takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax, to let it happen. The finger slides in, almost to the knuckle, smarting a little.

It takes all of Roman’s willpower to not come on the spot. This has been done to him before, of course – he’s done it to himself – but this is Peter. Peter, with his wild hair and wild eyes and biting wit, and Roman is _gone_ on him.

“Good?” Peter’s voice is soft, almost awed, and Roman shifts so he can wrap a hand around the base of his cock and squeeze.

“Hng,” he mumbles inarticulately. “Move.”

Peter inhales sharply and obeys, fucking the finger in and out for a moment before a second presses forward. Roman whines and pushes back, not caring about the burn as they go in. They feel like so much – it’s been a while – but he just wants more. Wants Peter.

He has to squeeze his hand hard enough that it hurts when Peter starts stretching him in earnest.  

His whole world goes topsy-turvy, though, when he feels Peter’s tongue shove in between his fingers. Roman loses his balance, falling forward into the bed, gasping for air. He makes an embarrassing whining sound when Peter laughs.

A third finger shoves its way in, but Peter keeps licking around them, keeping Roman too dizzy with shock and pleasure to feel the sting.

“Peter, Peter, _fuck,_ oh – shit, fuck, Peter,” Roman is rambling, muttering into the pillow his face is smashed into, hips undulating back toward Peter’s hand and _face._

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, right against Roman’s ass, pressing all three fingers as deep as he can get them and curling them in.

Despite his hand and all of his willpower, Roman comes.

He’s pretty sure he screams; whether he does or not, it doesn’t matter. He’s not sure he’s even still in his own body. Peter doesn’t stop moving, prolonging everything, until Roman is squirming and _crying,_ unsure if he’s trying to get closer or get away.

“Jesus Christ, Roman, so fucking _pretty_ – ” Peter’s voice filters through Roman’s haze and he whines.

“Peter,” he gasps, finally, “please. Fucking _please._ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter mutters, giving a few more thrusts with his fingers that make Roman shake. “Yeah, okay. Turn over.”

He pulls his fingers out and Roman makes a pitiful noise, but hurries to flip over, afterglow-and-desperation clumsy.

Before he’s even entirely settled, Peter’s kissing him, hands everywhere. Roman melts into the contact.

After several long, incredible moments of kissing, Peter finally pulls back again. “Shee-it,” he says, eyes bright. Roman manages a strangled laugh that morphs into a groan when he catches sight of Peter’s dick.

“Fuck,” Roman throws his head back. “Oh, fuck. Fuck me, please.”

“Mm, can do,” Peter nods, “but first.” He leans over to the nightstand again, and Roman sees the glint as he picks up the razor.

“One more time. Me or you?”

Roman swallows and struggles to breathe for a second, squirming where he’s trapped by Peter’s body. “Fuck, you, again, please.”

Peter grins, and this time, the cut he makes is bigger and deeper. Roman goes to sit up, but Peter holds him down with a hand on his shoulder. Roman makes a confused noise, but holds still and watches as Peter coats three fingers from his other hand in his own blood.

It isn’t until he brings the fingers to Roman’s lips that Roman catches on. Cock twitching, almost too soon, he groans and opens his mouth, letting Peter shove all three blood-soaked fingers onto his tongue. Roman groans again, muffled, and sucks at them, eyes rolling back.

Peter swears, eyes wide and dark. His fingertips stroke over Roman’s tongue, and Roman lets them; he lets his jaw go loose, staring half-lidded up at Peter.

“Good boy,” Peter mutters. “Such a good boy, Roman.”

Roman would try to say something back, but Peter’s fingers in his mouth stop him. Instead, he sucks on them again, wiggling his tongue around the knuckles and whimpering.

“Christ,” Peter grunts and suddenly yanks his fingers back. Roman whines but lets him go, spreading his legs easily when Peter directs him.

“Alright?” Peter asks, settling in close and hitching Roman’s leg over his elbow. Roman swallows hard and nods, biting his lip so he doesn’t say something embarrassing. Peter smiles, almost like he knows what Roman’s doing, and pushes forward.

Roman can’t help himself, he cries out and arches at the first press, body both rejecting and welcoming the intrusion. Peter doesn’t stop, though, just pushes until he’s seated, slowly but surely filling Roman to the brim.

Roman is pretty sure he’s crying again and he doesn’t give a fuck.

“Peter,” he gasps, arms flailing a little, “Peter, Peter – fuck, P-Peter, please move.”

Peter surges forward, pressing Roman’s leg up to his chest and burying his face into Roman’s shoulder. “Jesus _fuck_ , Roman,” he gasps. Roman just whines in reply, feeling the blood slicking between their chests. His cock gives a painful jerk, already filling again, as Peter starts rocking his hips.

At first, it’s small, tiny movements that hardly count as movement but feel earth-shattering. Roman’s barely even holding on to his sanity, clinging to the parts of Peter he can reach and whining nearly continuously. Peter’s muttering into his shoulder, a mix of English and Romani, all of it sappy and gross and Roman cannot get enough.

“Fuck, Roman, you feel so fucking good,” Peter groans the words against his neck. Roman just tosses his head back and arches closer, one hand tangled in Peter’s hair and the other scratching furrows into the skin of his back.

“Fuck,” is all Roman can manage to gasp out in reply.

Peter laughs and picks up the pace, putting space between their chests when he leans up. Roman whines but lets him go, hands dropping to tear at the sheets. His skin feels electrified, and the way Peter’s cock keeps bumping against his prostate is only making it more intense.

He’s definitely crying, now, he can feel the tears leaking into his hair and ears. And he should be embarrassed, but he just – can’t be, doesn’t have the room in his body past the pleasure and Peter’s dick.

“C’mon, Roman,” Peter murmurs, hitching Roman’s leg a little higher on his arm and changing the angle he’s fucking at, making Roman shout. “C’mon, want to see you come again.”

Roman whines and twists, everything too intense and too much, but Peter shifts to his knees and grabs Roman’s hip. Between the leg now on Peter’s shoulder and the grip on his hip, Roman can’t do anything but take it, lying half in Peter’s lap.

“Peter,” he gasps. Peter just hums in response and thrusts faster, eyes flicking between Roman’s tear-stained face and where they’re joined.

“So pretty,” Peter mutters, catching Roman’s gaze. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Roman.”

With that – and a particularly devastating thrust, right against Roman’s prostate – it’s all she wrote. Roman screams, outright _screeches,_ and comes again, all over his own stomach and chest. Peter makes a noise like the air has been punched out of him and hunches over Roman’s body, hips losing rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans. “ _Roman._ ”

“Peter,” Roman replies, hoarse and a little delirious. Peter just groans and slams into him one more time before he comes, hips twitching and eyes rolling. Roman shudders.

Slowly, Peter collapses down onto him, panting. Roman lets him, accepts the weight happily, still bleary and pleasure-drunk. After a moment, Peter manages to pull out of him – Roman will only admit to the whine it pulls out of him inside his own head – and shifts to the side, tugging Roman with him. They lay like that, in silence, catching their breaths, for a long moment.

“What would have happened if I said me?”

“Hmm?” Peter cracks one eye open to look at Roman in confusion.

Roman swallows and looks away. “Before, with – with the razor,” he says, softly, suddenly intensely aware of where blood is drying sticky on his skin. “What would have happened if I said me?”

Peter doesn’t say anything, instead just props himself up on his elbow and reaches blindly to where he dropped the razor, finally fishing it out from under the far pillow. He holds it up between them and Roman swallows again.

“Want to find out?” Peter is smirking, the expression softened a little with how sated he looks, but Roman has no doubts about his ability to get going again.

Roman nods.

Peter hums and shifts, moving so he’s sitting up on his knees, then swings a leg over Roman’s waist. Roman groans softly. He watches as Peter looks over him, eyes calculating. After several long seconds he grabs Roman’s hand, bringing his arm up to chest-level. Roman just looks on, starting to get an idea of where this is going.

His cock twitches again and it hurts a little.

“Peter?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Peter’s eyes slide back to his face from where they were fixed on the pulse in his wrist. “Still good?”

Roman gulps and nods. “Yeah, just….”

Peter grins. “Yeah,” he says, as if Roman actually said anything worthy of response. “Don’t flinch, okay?” He waits until Roman nods again, then turns his attention back to Roman’s wrist.

“Don’t flinch,” he repeats as he brings the razor up, sharp edge against the thin skin on Roman’s arm. “Won’t hurt too bad.”

Roman just grunts, then whimpers when the razor digs in. The cut is small, not deep, like the first one Peter made on himself, but it starts to bleed quickly. He definitely knows where this is going, now, but even knowing can’t prepare him for the sight.

Peter chases the dripping blood back up to his wrist with his tongue, then latches on to the tiny cut and sucks. Roman’s entire body bows, toward Peter, but he desperately keeps his eyes open to watch this happen. Peter’s gaze flickers to him and it’s burning. After a mind-bending moment of sensation, Peter pulls back, and his teeth are stained red.

“Yeah?” he asks. Roman just groans and shoves a hand into Peter’s hair, yanking him down for a messy, bloody kiss.

“Good?” Peter manages to ask between the biting kisses Roman can’t seem to stop. Roman just groans and rolls them, so he’s on top, settled between Peter’s legs.

Peter laughs, breathlessly, and wraps his legs around Roman’s hips. “Yeah, alright,” he says, biting at Roman’s jaw. Roman just tips his head and bites back, leaving a dark mark on Peter’s collarbone, directly across from the little cuts.

“Want more?” Peter asks, and Roman’s got no idea what he’s referring to – blood, or sex. Roman wants both.

“Want you,” he answers, mumbling around Peter’s skin between his teeth. He plans to leave Peter just as bruised as he is. From the way Peter keeps shifting closer and grunting, he doesn’t mind.

“Mmm, yeah, I got that,” Peter hums and tightens his knees against Roman’s sides. “So greedy.”

Roman just whines and leaves another mark on Peter’s throat, just over his pulse point. Peter laughs again and threads a hand through Roman’s hair, pulling sharply. Roman follows the pull, finds Peter’s mouth waiting for him, and gives into the kiss easily.

“What do you want, Roman?” Peter asks after a moment, still so close that Roman can feel his lips move. “More blood?”

Roman whimpers and nods, the movement restricted by the hand Peter still has gripped in his hair.

“Yeah,” Peter grins, “I know. Do you want to fuck me?”

Roman’s entire body jolts, shoving them an inch up the bed. Peter’s grin just widens.

“Yeah, Roman?” The way Peter says his name is entirely unfair; Roman bites his lip against another whimper and hides his face against Peter’s throat. He feels more than hears Peter’s breathy chuckle.

“You can,” Peter says after a moment of stroking Roman’s hair. “Plenty of lube,” he nods toward where the bottle is on the side of the bed, threatening to roll off. Roman groans and presses his forehead harder against Peter’s neck.

“Peter,” he mutters. Peter just scratches at his scalp in response, apparently content to wait out Roman’s shaking.

Eventually, he regains control of himself – barely – and grabs the lube, spilling entirely too much over his fingers.

Peter just sighs and tips his head back as Roman reaches clumsily between them. He knows this would work better – go faster – if he just sat up, give himself room to move, but Peter’s hand is still in his hair and he can feel Peter’s pulse against his cheek, and he doesn’t want to move.

Peter doesn’t seem to mind the awkward angle, grunting and pushing closer every time Roman’s fingers shove inside. His eyes are closed, and his head is still tipped back, but Roman can just barely see his expression twisted in pleasure. It hits him somewhere in his stomach, knowing he’s making Peter look like that.

“Fuck,” he mutters, biting at Peter’s skin again just to distract himself. Peter groans and tugs at his hair again.

“Ready,” he says. “Fuck, c’mon, Roman. Fuck me.”

Roman fucks three fingers inside him and spreads them out one last time just for good measure – and to feel the way Peter shudders – then grabs the lube again. Regretfully, he actually has to sit up for this part, sacrificing the closeness.

Peter makes up for it completely just with the way he’s looking at Roman. His eyes are wild and his mouth is still bloodstained and it hits Roman, somewhere in his chest, that this is it for him.

He shoves the thought aside, because it’s just too much. Peter grasps at him, dragging him back to the moment.

“C’mon, Roman,” he says. Says, not begs, because he’s still the one in charge here and Roman can feel it in his fucking bones. He goes easily when Peter pulls him closer, shifting into place as Peter hitches his legs higher, wrapping around Roman’s waist. “Good,” Peter murmurs. “Such a good boy, Roman, really.”

Roman whimpers and hides his face again, using the hand he’s not balancing with to guide his cock. Pushing in is like a goddamned revelation, and Roman’s pretty sure he’s crying – again – but he can’t honestly feel much besides how hot and close Peter is.

“Fuck,” Peter groans the word, long and drawn out and breathless, and Roman whines through his teeth. “God, Roman, so fucking good. C’mon, move.”

Roman obeys without thought, pulling out and fucking back in, slowly at first but faster as Peter encourages him and instinct starts taking over. He’s almost entirely lost, too focused on sensation and the sound of Peter’s voice to pay attention to anything else. Eventually, though, Peter gets his attention back with a sharp bite against his shoulder and the feeling of cool metal against his throat.

He forces himself up, blinking to clear his vision, and finds Peter grinning at him and holding the razor again. “Me again, or you?” he asks, the razor still glinting where it’s not covered in blood already as he flips in in his fingers. Roman’s hip’s stall, mostly so he can get some control over himself.

“M-me,” he says, finally, and Peter nods.

“C’mere, then,” he says, pulling Roman back down. “Yeah, like this.” Peter’s breath ghosts across his shoulder and throat and he shudders, hips falling back into rhythm.

Peter groans. “God, yeah, Roman. Keep fucking me. Good boy.”

Roman whimpers, then does it again when the razor digs into the junction of his neck and shoulder. Before he can really process the pain – as if he’d be able to – Peter’s mouth is over the wound, biting and sucking.

“Fuck, Pete – Peter, I can’t,” Roman half-sobs the words, shuddering hard, and Peter just pulls him closer and doesn’t speak. “Not – can’t last.”

Peter hums but doesn’t do anything to stop it, just continues lapping up Roman’s blood. Roman groans and loses it, collapsing clumsily onto Peter’s chest as he comes. Peter just growls, low and possessive, and grips him tighter. After a few minutes, Roman comes back to his senses and realizes that Peter’s still hard, pressed between their stomachs.

Groaning, he pushes himself up and then scoots back, Peter protesting the movement with tugs at his hair until he realizes where Roman’s going.

“Please?” Roman asks, laying on his belly between Peter’s raised knees. His still kind of dizzy, from the orgasm or the blood loss or the complete emotional mindfuck, or all of it, but he wants this. Still wants Peter so much it hurts.

“Fuck, yes, please,” Peter’s voice cracks a little, “c’mere, Roman.” He pulls at Roman’s hair, just enough to get him moving.

Roman swallows his cock down of his own volition, going too deep too fast and gagging, but doesn’t let it stop him. Peter doesn’t seem bothered, either, just moaning out Roman’s name and profanities. After a moment of fumbling, Roman finds a rhythm and sticks to it. It’s sloppy and he chokes a few (several) times in his clumsiness, but Peter’s nails are digging into his shoulder and his scalp, moaning incoherently, and if Roman weren’t so dizzy and tired and sated he’d be hard all over again.

“Fuck, Roman, so fucking good,” Peter is muttering, tugging at his hair, words broken up by gasps and moans, “such a good boy, fuck, you’re going to make me come.”

Roman moans and fucks his mouth down harder over Peter’s dick, pulling a broken noise from the other’s throat that’s completely new and entirely addictive.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Peter can’t seem to stop mumbling it, hips rolling against Roman’s face and hand tugging at his hair rhythmically. “Fuck, gonna – Roman, please – ”

Roman half-chokes on Peter’s release but fights to swallow it anyway. Peter _keens,_ high and broken, and allows the treatment for several long moments before he shoves Roman away, apparently too sensitive to handle it.

“Get up here,” Peter growls, and Roman scrambles over himself to lean back over Peter. He’s yanked down, no chance to catch himself so his entire weight sprawls over Peter, and kissed so hard he sees stars.

“Fucking perfect,” Peter says, low and sincere, and Roman’s heart thumps hard, once, then speeds up. “So fucking pretty, and so perfect.” Roman whines, but it gets cut off in another searing kiss.

Eventually, the kiss slows, goes from possessive and hard to just as possessive but soft, and Roman keeps _mewling_ , unable to stop himself from making the noise or chasing after Peter whenever there’s the slightest separation. Peter just grins, eyes glittering, and keeps kissing him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this author requires validation. please.


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